j) t= I (. . scattered along the shore of Lake Kivu, which, Carlier told us gleefully, con- tained no life: the last time Nyiragongo had erupted, the volcanic gases had killed every living creature in it. Sestra and I shared one of the huts, which was redolent of clean towels, insecticide, and mold. As she unpacked, humming to her- self: I stared out the window: a pirogue glided unhurriedly on the waveless water; the sky and the lake were welded to- gether seamlessly; a pale moon levitated in the haze. The sun was setting some- where; it seemed as if everything were returning to darkness after an unhappy day out. The ban on my wandering seemed to be suspended here; I left Sestra sprawling on her bed, happily attached to her Walkman. "Heart of Darkness" in hand, I took an uphill path past the other bungalows. I was hoping to es- cape dinner with my family. On the way from the airport, they had felt as foreign to me as if they were hired ac- tors mindlessly performing gestures of care and kinship: T ata in his absurd pith helmet, Mama smirking, routinely afraid of the future, Sestra approaching everything with pointless curiosity. I could remember that I used to love them, but I could not remember why, and I was terrified. The carefully trimmed hedges were moist with dusk; low, mushroomlike lanterns flickered along the path. I 80 THE NEW YORKER, OCTOBER 23, 2006 ... 'if'11f,5tN . walked onto a terrace extending from a vast dining hall. At its center, like an altar, was a table laden with food and flowers. And there, with his back to me, picking up slices of meat and chunks of fruit, mounding them on his plate, was Steve Spinelli. I recognized his triangu- lar torso and narrow hips, his clawlike curls and cowboy boots. For a blink, I considered sneaking out, but then he turned-a veritable hillock of victuals on his plate-and looked at me with no surprise whatsoever. "Look what the bitch dragged in," he said. He walked out onto the terrace and I went with him to his table; he offered me a seat and I took it, determined to leave before T ata caught me there. Without being asked, I said, 'We are going to the Virunga National Park tomorrow, for a _L ." Salarl. "It's a fun world, Blunderpuss," Spi- nelli said. "Getting funner every day." "Is Natalie with you?" " Sh . " e lS. 'Why are you here?" He chewed heartily, with his mouth open, ignoring me. Between forkfuls, he puffed on a cigarette. " F ." h " d " A d h or a vacatlon, e sal. n, w 0 knows, there might be some business to be done." I grabbed his Marlboros and lit up. The possibility that the cigarette might be drug-laced crossed my mind, but it tasted good. He seemed to speak to me from a space in which no life mattered- all the roles had already been assigned and I did not know what mine was. I fidgeted and tapped the ashes off my cigarette until the ember broke off "I hear that you're a good volley- ball player," he said. "Did you like Antonyka?" "How do you know him?" "I know a lot of people. Anton is a re- markable gentleman, as well as a Com- munist cocksucker." He waved at Carlier, who was just walking into the dining hall, accompa- nied by a tall man with sideburns and a scaphander-like Afro. Carlier spoke to the man brusquely, pointing at the meat tray, then at the flowers-there was some disorder to be redressed. "I know Carlier, too, for example," Spinelli went on. 'We used to run guns to Angola to- gether." The man took notes, looking at Carlier with dismay that tightened the muscles and sinews in his forearms. I envisioned him suddenly punching Carlier's face in, blood spraying onto his white shirt. "Your dad also played with you and Anton, didn't he?" Spinelli said. "I bet you played pretty good together." Carlier dropped into the chair next to Spinelli. He pulled a pipe out of his breast pocket and picked some detritus from its mouth with his pinkie, but didn't light it. "Whipping would be too good for Monsieur Henry," he said peevisWy. "One day, Carlier, he's gonna slit your throat," Spinelli said. "And I'll cry over your corpse till I can piss no more." Scoffing with approbation, Carlier picked up my book, looked at it without interest, and put it down. I took it and bid them good night. T he mushroom lamps cast a feeble light on the path, but not on any- thing else. The lava gravel crunched under my feet. Obscure creatures rustled in the black trees and bushes. The sky was splattered with stars, smeared with the Milky Way. I was lost; I could not re- member the number of my hut, which was identical to all the others; the path seemed to go in circles. I don't know why I behaved like a lunatic. I heard footsteps coming down the path behind me; I stepped off into